


Something to Soften the Blow

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Demigods, Geno is not human, M/M, Rimming, fudging of timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17040275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: It’s an honor just to be nominated,they tell him.To be named, recognized, at this level. You should be grateful.Sid knows. Heknows.  And heisgrateful. Humbled. Honored. He knows what this will mean for himself, for his family. So when they call his name, when they bring him up on the stage, when they offer him up as tribute, he climbs the steps and straightens his jacket and shakes everyone’s hand, ignoring the twist to his stomach.





	1. Chapter 1

_It’s an honor just to be nominated,_ they tell him. _To be named, recognized, at this level. You should be grateful._

Sid knows. He _knows._ And he _is_ grateful. Humbled. Honored. He knows what this will mean for himself, for his family. So when they call his name, when they bring him up on the stage, when they offer him up as tribute, he climbs the steps and straightens his jacket and shakes everyone’s hand, ignoring the twist to his stomach.

His parents are applauding in the audience. His father looks proud, beaming and rosy, but Sid can see the tears his mother is trying to hide behind her smile. Taylor is too little to understand what’s happening, but her eyes are wide and she’s clapping too. Sid smiles at her from the stage before he accepts the jersey and tugs it over his head.

His name is announced, and Sid’s stomach turns over. It’s official. He’s a Pittsburgh Penguin, and he has a debt to deliver on.

 

It takes time. Sid moves to Pittsburgh, in with the Lemieux family. It’s nice, if a little overwhelming at times. He misses sleepy Cole Harbour with an intensity that shakes him to his core at times, but he’s already learning to love Pittsburgh, with its defiant spirit and backbone of steel.

He meets the other members of the team, one by one and all at once. They are, by and large, friendly and welcoming.

“The prodigy,” Fleury calls him, laughing, and Sid has relaxed enough to tease him back about being chosen first himself. He wants to ask how it went for Flower, but he doesn’t know him well enough yet, and there are too many people around, so he bites his lip and keeps his smile in place. He’ll find out soon, he tells himself. Flower has a girlfriend, anyway, and they seem so happy and in love that it couldn’t have been _that_ bad.

He repeats that to himself sometimes, in Mario’s guest bedroom with all the lights off, staring at the ceiling. _You chose this. This is what you wanted. What you want. This is how you get what you want._ It doesn’t fully ease the nerves, but he hasn’t thrown up in awhile, so maybe it’s working.

Weeks turn into months, and still there’s no sign of—anything. Sid applies himself to the game, playing the best hockey he can, aware of all the eyes on him, but there’s a sick sense of dread that clings to his shoulders, riding his frame like a gremlin.

He gets closer to the team, forming bonds and friendships. Dupuis helps him settle in, shows him the city, introduces him to his family and invites him over for meals. But he doesn’t speak of his own initiation into the team, and Sid doesn’t—quite—have the nerve to ask.

He buys a house close to Mario’s, moves in over objections that he doesn’t have to leave, that he’s always welcome. He can’t keep freeloading, he tells himself, but he also can’t hide the nerves that eat at him and Mario’s going to pry it out of him soon if Sid doesn’t get out of there.

He likes Letang immediately, his feisty spirit and the bite of his anger. It’s sharp and refreshing, like a blast of snow in his face. He feels stronger, steadier, when he knows Tanger’s on his line. Tanger has his back, will throw down for him without hesitation. But Tanger doesn’t speak of _it_ either, and Sid is going half-mad with not knowing.

It’s Flower he broaches the subject with first. Flower’s always laughing, always ready with a prank to lift the team’s spirits. If Sid is the face of the team, Flower is the heart. Sid already trusts him, a few months into the season. So he takes Flower out to lunch one day, both of them safely hidden beneath their caps and dark glasses, and they devour sushi together as they discuss the team’s prospects.

And finally, _finally,_ Sid finds the nerve to ask what it will be like.

Flower’s mouth falls open. “It hasn’t happened yet?”

Sid shakes his head. Is that bad? Should he be worried? But Flower doesn’t look upset—just confused.

“It’s never taken this long,” he says. “‘Course, I am not with the team so long myself, but Duper tells me, and Nealsy. And for me, it was… a week, maybe?”

“What was it _like?”_ Sid asks, twisting his napkin in his fingers.

Flower takes off his sunglasses. His dark eyes are warm. “Have you been worried, my friend?”

“Of course I have,” Sid snaps. He resists the urge to shift his weight. “No one will _talk_ about it, I don’t know what’s going to happen, I’m going out of my _mind.”_

Flower reaches across the table and grabs Sid’s hand. Sid would have pulled away from almost anyone else, but not Flower. Not with his steady, reassuring grip, the sympathy in his eyes.

“I didn’t know, _ami,”_ Flower says, squeezing Sid’s hand. “If I had, I would have said something. It’s not so bad, I promise.” He shakes his head, laughing at his own choice of words. “‘Not so bad’. I make it sound like something to be endured. It was… nice. I liked it.”

Sid doesn’t believe him, and something must show in his face. Flower releases his hand and sits back, arching a brow.

“You think I’m lying?”

“I think I still don’t know what _happened,”_ Sid says. “What will happen to _me.”_

“Then I will tell you,” Flower says simply. “And you can stop eating yourself alive waiting for this horrible thing that is not so horrible.”

And he tells him.

Sid still doesn’t believe him, at first. Flower laughs at him, and when Sid stays stubborn, insisting it had to be more than that, Flower calls Vero.

“‘Allo, my love,” he says, his face softening the way it always does when he hears her voice or sees her, and Sid gives himself a moment to wish for that, that soul-deep bond with another person. Flower is talking in rapid French and then he hands the phone to Sid, who nearly drops it.

“Uh. Hello?”

“Sid!” Vero sounds delighted to talk to him. “Marc Andre tells me you are worried about swearing your fealty. Will it help if I tell you how it went for us?”

Sid clears his throat. “I—yeah, maybe. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t know what happened in the room itself,” Vero says. “That sort of thing is for the team only to know. But I can tell you that Marc Andre was… so happy, after. Lighter, almost. He called me immediately and we talked for hours. I wanted so much to be there with him, but I could tell even over the phone, what paying his debt had done for him. It was not a burden. And when I came down next—” She stops to laugh quietly, and Sid can feel his face burning.

Across the table, Flower smirks at him, and Sid kicks at his ankle. He clears his throat as Flower yelps and pretends to be wounded. “Thank you, Vero. I—that helped. Really.”

“It was my pleasure,” Vero tells him warmly. “Let me talk to my miscreant again, yes?”

Sid hands the phone back and Flower’s voice drops as he responds to her question in French far too rapid for Sid to follow.

Maybe… maybe it won’t be so bad.

“When?” he asks Flower when he’s said goodbye to Vero, but all Flower does is shrug in that infuriatingly Gallic way of his.

“When he is ready,” he says, and that’s not helpful _at all._

 

They go on the road the next day, and Sid shoves the worry to the back of his mind, concentrating on winning games. Lemieux and the others push him to the edge of his abilities, always demanding more from him until Sid’s not sure he can give anything else. But he tries. Oh, he tries. He leaves his heart on the ice during every game, sweating and bleeding and _fighting_ for his team, these men who are rapidly becoming his family.

And then it happens.

He doesn’t see the hit that lays him out. He doesn’t even remember anything leading up to it. All he knows is one minute he’s driving the puck to the net, battling off several attackers, and the next he’s waking up in a dimly lit room, rivulets of fiery pain licking through his skull and making him gasp.

Someone touches his hand and Sid flinches away, unable to open his eyes.

“Breathe, _cher,”_ and that’s Flower’s voice, tight with worry.

“What—” Sid’s own voice is thick and slurred. He stops, swallows painfully, tries again. “What happened?”

“Concussion,” Flower says softly. “You have to rest. The doctor is coming.”

 _No, no._ Sid can’t shake his head—can’t move, but he feels his eyes sting with tears. “Am I out?” he manages. _Before I even had a chance to—_

“No,” Flower says, tightening his grip. “You’re not out. You will play again.”

The door opens before Sid can ask him to promise.

He’s sent home, with strict instructions not to look at computer or television screens, to stay in a dark room and not strain his eyes.

Flower tries to come with him but Sid sends him away, gentle at first and then more sharply when Flower refuses to listen. He regrets it, after, but at least he’s alone and he can feel properly sorry for himself without Flower trying to make it better.

 

It’s a week into his convalescence when he senses someone in the house with him. It’s been a slow morning and Sid is bored out of his mind, moping around with nothing to do. He can’t text, can’t watch TV, and even Flower is too busy with practice and media obligations to talk on the phone for long. The others have stopped answering when he calls them because all he does is whine, and Sid wants to scream his frustration but that would only hurt his head.

He’s lying on the couch, flat on his back with his eyes closed, when he realizes he’s not alone. In the same breath, he realizes he’s not afraid. Whoever’s in the room with him means him no harm. Sid doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does, so he opens his eyes.

A man is crouching next to him, concern on his expressive face and in his warm brown eyes.

“Hello, Sid,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Sid says. “It’s you.”

The man smiles at him. “Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Is it time?” Sid struggles to sit up and the man helps him with a hand under his elbow. His touch is solid and warm, undeniably  _ real, _ and Sid doesn’t try to figure out how he got inside the house. “I’m hurt,” he adds, probably unnecessarily, and the man’s eyes crease with amusement.

“I’m know.” He sounds Russian, Sid realizes. “I’m make it better, if you’re trust me.”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He’s leaning back against the couch cushions, and he closes his eyes again because it still hurts to have them open for too long. “What’s your name? Is that something I’m allowed to ask?”

“Can ask me anything. You call me Geno, yes? Easier for you to say than my real name.”

“Okay,” Sid says. He feels long fingers stroking his temples, brushing his curls out of his face, and with each touch, the pain seeps away like water through sand, until Sid moans from sheer relief.

“Better?” Geno asks, hands still cupping Sid’s head.

“God, yeah,” Sid sighs, stretching and unable to stop the smile. It feels so good to move without being punished for it. “Thank you.” He opens his eyes. Geno is still crouched in front of him, close enough that Sid would ordinarily find a reason to lean away, wriggle out of reach, but instead he finds himself wanting to curl into Geno’s warm touch. “I’m ready,” he says.

Geno huffs a quiet laugh and sits back on his heels. “Ready for what, Sid?”

“For—” Sid gestures wordlessly. “You know. To pay my debt.”

“You think is why I’m here? To take from you when you can’t say no?” Geno sounds genuinely curious, and Sid frowns.

“Well, I mean—yeah? What I can’t figure out is why you didn’t come sooner.”

“It wasn’t time.”

“What does that  _ mean?” _ Sid demands, before he realizes maybe he shouldn’t take that tone.

But Geno doesn’t look perturbed. He rocks to his feet in one fluid movement and holds out a hand. Sid takes it and Geno pulls him up. Sid tenses for pain that doesn’t come and Geno smiles down at him. He’s  _ tall, _ towering over Sid by five inches or more, and lanky with it, a gawky rawboned man with gentle brown eyes.

“Where do you come from?” Sid asks. “Sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“Told you, can ask me anything.” Geno doesn’t move or do anything so obvious as snapping his fingers or waving a wand, but their surroundings fade into blackness until it’s like they’re standing in a fathomless void, vast nothingness stretching below Sid’s feet and all around them. 

Sid isn’t afraid though, still holding Geno’s hand. He’s never felt safer, somehow, as he waits for whatever Geno’s going to do next. 

“Where you think I’m from?” Geno asks. He’s looking over Sid’s head, frowning as if at something in the distance, but when Sid turns to look, he sees nothing but more darkness.

“You sound Russian,” Sid says.

Geno hums approvingly. “Good, Sid.” He frowns again, and a tiny spike of concern jolts Sid.

“Is everything okay?”

“It will be,” Geno says. “You know what I am?”

“Sort of,” Sid admits. He’s  _ still _ holding Geno’s hand, but he finds he doesn’t want to let go, so he doesn’t. “I know you’re like… uh, a demigod?”

“Close,” Geno says. There’s a thread of urgency in his voice. “What else?”

“Well, you give us our strength and speed. Every team has a… a patron, I guess. No one really talks about it, though, it’s just accepted. So I don’t really know a lot of details. But like, when we sign with the team, it’s like swearing a vow or… Vero called it fealty. Do I have to obey you?”

Geno shakes his head. “No, Sid. Can do whatever you want. I’m not control you. But yes, you swear to me. Give me your loyalty, I’m give you hockey.” His eyes crinkle. “Even better hockey, for you.”

“What do you take from me?” Sid asks. It’s the million dollar question, what’s kept him awake at night for months now, and he finds himself holding his breath waiting for the answer.

“Only what you willing to give,” Geno says. “Touch is best.” He flicks a glance over Sid’s head and his eyes narrow. “Soon, Sid.”

_ Touch? _ “Like what?” Sid asks. He looks behind him again. Dread is welling in his chest but he still sees nothing. “What’s happening, Geno?”

“Need you to swear,” Geno says. His voice is tight now. 

_ “How?” _

“You’re decide, but  _ hurry.” _

Sid wants to tear out his hair. He works best with clear instructions, knowing exactly what he has to do before he does it. Geno’s frame is tense now, and he’s utterly still, waiting for Sid to—to what? He doesn’t  _ know. _

_ Touch is best. _

Sid swears and grabs Geno’s head, hauling him down into a bruising kiss as he plasters himself against Geno’s lanky frame. Geno makes a muffled noise and wraps his arms around Sid’s waist, kissing back hot and wild. He wrenches his head away just long enough to gasp, “Close your eyes,” and then his mouth is back on Sid’s and Sid obeys, squeezing his eyes shut as light bursts from Geno’s body, flaring brilliant white-hot behind Sid’s eyelids and shrieks of agony go up from a dozen throats.

Sid resists the urge to look and instead hangs on, half-convinced he should be burning with the intensity of both the light and the heat of Geno’s lips. Geno takes control of the kiss, angling Sid’s head exactly where he wants it and delving deep into his mouth in quick, confident sweeps as all around them, light scours away the darkness and the screams fade into nothing.

When Geno finally breaks the kiss, Sid buries his face in Geno’s throat, unwilling to see whatever awaits him. Geno rubs his back, soothing strokes up and down Sid’s spine.

“Safe to look,” he murmurs, so Sid lifts his head, blinking warily.

The light doesn’t hurt his eyes, he realizes. They’re standing in the middle of a huge open space, red sandstone under their feet stretching out as far as Sid can see in every direction. Around them, etched into the stone in a cascading ripple are twisted, blackened shapes, and it takes Sid a minute before the pieces fall into place in his head.

They’re  _ skeletons, _ burned to ash with the intensity of Geno’s light and their kiss. Sid sways and Geno tightens his grip, holding him up.

“You swear to me,” he says, “and I’m give you strength, speed, is true. But also—” He bends his head and takes a quick kiss. “I’m give you protection,” he murmurs.

“From what?” Sid asks.

“Like me, but… other side,” Geno says. He grimaces. “They’re want take from you. Take  _ you.” _

Sid shivers.

“Safe now,” Geno murmurs. “You swear. Nothing can hurt you.”

“Oh,” Sid says, dazed. “All that from a kiss?”

Geno laughs quietly. “Is whatever you want to give.”

“And—is a kiss enough?” Sid asks, feeling suddenly daring.

Geno narrows his eyes. “You’re want to give more, Sid?”

“Well,” Sid hedges. He can’t quite hide his smile. “Can’t be too careful, right? Maybe we should—” Their surroundings ripple and fade again and Sid clutches at Geno’s arms. “—Make sure,” he finishes, and looks around.

They’re in Sid’s bedroom. Those are his curtains at the window, picked out by Nathalie Lemieux, the rug on the floor chosen by the Lemieux children for its vibrant colors. That’s his cherry wood bed frame, too big for him but bought with the vague hope that he’d have someone to share it with someday. Sid glances up at Geno, who’s looking at him with something like hope in his eyes.

“You want, Sid?” he asks quietly.

Sid swallows. Does he? He nods, and the rightness of the decision settles into his bones. “Yeah,” he says. “I really do. If—is that okay?”

Geno says something in Russian, thick and helpless, and drags Sid back into his arms. The kiss is hot and devouring and Sid loses himself in it willingly, only peripherally aware of Geno maneuvering him backward until his thighs hit the mattress and he topples onto it.

Sid lands with a bounce and realizes their clothes are gone at the same instant. “Nice trick,” he says, and Geno grins at him, dark and predatory. It makes heat curl through Sid’s belly.

“Did you do this with the others?” he asks, and Geno pauses as he’s about to climb on the bed.

“Is problem, if I did?”

Sid considers. “No,” he says, and something around Geno’s eyes eases. “No,” Sid repeats, holding out a hand. “I… like it. The thought of—I don’t know, you bonding with us.”

Geno goes to him, crawls on top of him and sits on Sid’s thighs, the weight of him solid and warm and undeniably real.

“Is different for everyone,” he says, trailing his palms down Sid’s ribs and making him shiver. “Some give only handshake. Or hug. Some kiss.”

“Flower kissed you, didn’t he?” Sid says, and Geno grins.

“Maybe,” he allows. “Vero lucky girl.” He digs his fingers into the jut of Sid’s hips, and Sid arches into it.

“Have you  _ met _ Vero? Flower—ah—is a lucky guy.”

“Don’t want to talk about Flower,” Geno growls. He bends and takes Sid’s mouth in a wet, hungry kiss. 

Sid can’t quite believe this is happening, that he’s gone from being terrified at what Geno would take from him to wanting to give him more than he’d even asked for. He sinks into the kiss, winding his arms around Geno’s neck, breaking away to press a line of sharp nips along Geno’s jaw.

Geno shivers, and something like static electricity ripples over his skin. Sid jerks, startled, but whatever it is, it doesn’t shock or burn him. 

“What—”

“Sorry,” Geno says, sounding breathless. “Been long time.” He drops his head and noses along Sid’s clavicle. “You bad for my self-control.”

It’s a forcible reminder that Geno isn’t human—isn’t anything Sid has experienced before—but Sid isn’t bothered or put off by this. If anything, he’s even more turned on, watching the sparks that flicker across Geno’s body in the wake of Sid’s fingertips. 

“Sid—” Geno sounds wrecked. He rolls off and Sid wonders wildly if he’s done something wrong but Geno isn’t leaving. He’s grabbing Sid’s thighs and—oh god, flipping him so he’s face down on the bed and Geno can get between his legs. 

Sid stifles a noise in the pillow and Geno cups the curve of his ass. 

“So beautiful,” he breathes. He strokes one cheek and Sid groans, pushing back into his touch. 

“More,” he manages. 

“I can touch?” Geno asks. 

Sid is so hard it’s making his head swim. He can’t help grinding down against the mattress even as he looks over his shoulder. 

“Anything you want,” he says, reckless with desire. 

Geno makes a broken noise and pulls Sid’s cheeks apart as he drops his head. Sid cries out as Geno swipes his tongue over Sid’s hole, licking him in broad strokes until he’s so wet he’s dripping. 

Only then does he press one finger inside, and Sid thinks vaguely that he may fly apart from the sensations rushing through his body, the press and stretch as Geno adds another finger, his leaking cock dragging full and heavy over the bedspread, arousal burning bright in the pit of his belly. 

He loses time, unable to track anything except Geno’s hands, Geno’s mouth, Geno’s weight and warmth as he eats him out slow and languid, unhurried despite the way Sid is pushing his hips back against him. He has no idea how long it goes on. The world has dissolved around him, and Sid surrenders to it willingly. He’s desperate to come but pushes it down, away, refusing to lose a second of what’s happening.

Geno lifts his head after an eternity, a moment, an eon, and drapes himself over Sid’s trembling body.

“Doing okay?” he whispers in Sid’s ear, and Sid can feel the hard press of his cock grinding against his upper thigh. It makes him shudder even as he nods, unable to form words. Geno groans against the nape of Sid’s neck. “Want so much, Sid.”

Somehow, Sid manages to speak. “Take it,” he gasps.

Geno appears to take him at his word. He goes to his knees and tilts Sid’s hips at the angle he wants. Then there’s pressure on his hole and Sid tenses, waiting for the pain, but there is none. Geno slides in silken smooth as Sid opens around him.  _ Supernatural being, _ Sid reminds himself, panting as he gets used to the feel of being so full. It’s too much and not enough and he rocks forward, then back, trying to find the balance. Geno grabs his hips hard enough to bruise and Sid bucks, grinding back harder.

“Fuck me,” he manages.

Geno does. He slams home, over and over, making Sid cry out every time Geno buries himself deep and moan in protest when he withdraws. There’s nothing in Sid’s mind except the overwhelming pleasure burning in his gut, the bruising grip on his hips, the fire coiled low at the base of his spine. He gets one hand up and braces himself on the headboard. That’s better—he can shove backward onto Geno’s cock this way, somehow taking him even deeper.

Geno makes a broken noise and folds forward. His breath is molten hot on the nape of Sid’s neck, and he reaches under, gripping Sid’s shaft in one huge hand. He sets his teeth in Sid’s shoulder and Sid is helpless, falling apart in shivery slow-motion. He’s dimly aware of Geno driving deep and heat flooding his core, but then the darkness pulls him down, closing over his head and shutting off his senses. He surrenders to it gratefully.

 

He wakes up clean, dry, and dressed in a soft, faded Shattuck T-shirt and his favorite pair of sweatpants. Sid doesn’t bother to question it. Geno’s arms are warm around him, his breathing steady in Sid’s ear. Sid stretches, taking stock. He doesn’t hurt—anywhere. He feels fantastic, in fact. When he rolls his head, Geno’s watching him, eyes steady. 

Sid smiles at him and Geno visibly relaxes.

“Hey,” Sid says. What’s the protocol for waking up in a—maybe—demigod’s arms? He’s working without a rulebook here, but he doesn’t feel worry or fear, just a deep sense of contentment and a lifting of the weight that was on his shoulders.

“Feel okay?” Geno asks.

Sid laughs. “You know I do.”

Geno smiles. “Like to make sure.” He sobers. “Have to go, Sid.”

Sid nods. “Okay.”

“Not upset?” Geno says, clearly startled.

Sid shrugs. “You’re not human. Be pretty stupid for me to assume you’d act like one.” He hesitates. “Will you… come back, sometime?”

Geno cups his face, and Sid closes his eyes, letting the warmth of his hand seep into his bones.

“Every chance I get,” Geno promises.

There’s a featherlight brush across Sid’s lips, like gossamer wings there and gone again. When Sid opens his eyes, he’s alone in the bed.

He lies quietly for a minute. Then he smiles, sits up, and calls Flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the love! Today was better. :)
> 
> [Come hang out with me on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of in a writing slump, so I wrote... whatever this is. Chapter two will be up soon. Having a shit day so comments/feedback would be even more appreciated than usual.
> 
> Title is from Favorite Color is Blue by Robert deLong and K. Flay.


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